


The Thing With Feathers

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e01 They’re Back Aren’t They?, Gen, Missing Scene, Pain, Season/Series 03, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Whump, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: For Lucifer Bingo prompt: featherWhy had he ever thought he could rely on anyone else?Hadn’t the universe taught him well enough that he was always, ultimately, alone?And so it was that Lucifer found himself standing in the center of his walk-in shower, naked, holding a demon blade in one hand and an uncooperative wing in the other.





	The Thing With Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. This fic is about Lucifer severing his own wings, with all the blood and viscera and physical and emotional pain that implies.  
> Thanks to [emynii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii), [HiroMyStory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiroMyStory/pseuds/HiroMyStory), [LaughingLynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingLynx/pseuds/LaughingLynx), [matchstick_dolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly), [Miah_Arthur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur), [TheYahwehDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYahwehDance/pseuds/TheYahwehDance), and the other lovely people on the Filii Hircus Discord for all your help.

> Hope is the thing with feathers 
> 
> That perches in the soul
> 
> And sings the tune without the words
> 
> And never stops at all

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

 

Why had he ever thought he could rely on anyone else?

Hadn’t the universe taught him well enough that he was always, ultimately, alone?

And so it was that Lucifer found himself standing in the center of his walk-in shower, naked, holding a demon blade in one hand and an uncooperative wing in the other. Linda had refused, Mazikeen was absent, and Amenadiel…

They didn’t understand— _couldn’t_ understand—none of them. Couldn’t truly comprehend that these shackles on his back that burned twice as purely and thrice as cruelly as adamant were an unbearable weight. That the light and grace they held brought nothing but agony and despair. That they would drag him down to Hell to stay in penal fire or, worse even, up to Heaven and celestial servitude.

And he would _not_ permit that. Not again. He would not let Him win.

But the rebellious wing refused to behave, darting away as the knife drew near and complicating the already precarious angle at which he held the blade against his back. “Bloody… feathery… _bastards_ ,” he muttered under his breath as the wing failed to extend, instead pressing protectively against his back.

“Stop _helping!_ ”

His failure thus far was made worse by the knowledge that the wings’ recalcitrance stemmed entirely from himself, a fact he could not, despite himself, blame on his Father. Living flesh was hardwired to avoid the sort of pain he was attempting to inflict. The worthless things were already gouged in several places by multiple badly timed attempts, and blood dripped steadily to the tiles, whisked away by the constant stream of water. He couldn’t… He needed…

Oh.

A foolproof way of keeping the wings where he wanted them. He readjusted his grip against the radius, braced his free hand against the wall, and simultaneously made the wing billow outward and yanked forward. Or… he tried to, but his limbs refused to cooperate.

“Useless blighters.”

He took another swig from the bottle sitting next to the glass, gritted his teeth, and tried again. The wing shot backward, but his hand was steady this time as he wrenched it, hard, against his back. The joint gave with a wet lurch, a twisting shudder and a couple of dry heaves as he fell into the wall, panting.

Bloody _hell_ , that hurt.

He bit into his lip hard enough to taste blood and pulled himself back up to stand. The wing remained limp, hanging awkwardly, trailing on the shower floor. He grabbed the edge of it again, but let go with a hiss. Touching it hurt. Breathing, with its cruel motion, was agony. Moving the wing in any way was torturous.

He allowed himself a moment of weakness, a high and aching screech muffled by his clenched jaw echoing through the room. But he could not let himself submit, would not lose himself to the memory of his wings, broken and bloodied as he… He wrested his breathing under control and forced out a laugh, baring his teeth.

“Can’t get away now, can you, you wretched little wanker?”

He reached for the wing again, pulling it forward and ignoring the sparks darting across his vision, before he realized he couldn’t hold the wing out and cut at the same time.

“Bollocks!”

He considered some sort of tool or contraption, but he didn’t particularly appreciate the idea of dragging his wing over hither and yon and…

_Shit._

A low throb hummed along the flight muscles that threatened to turn to a cramp and panic burrowed into his mind. He needed something. Now. Something quick. Something simple. Something _nearby_. He cast about for options, but few things could hold celestial limbs except… _other celestial limbs._ Perfect. He grunted and drew the wing forward again—he was rapidly becoming used to the pain. He brought his foot down against the body of the wing and shuddered at the terrible and cruelly familiar feeling.

He tasted dust in his mouth and was swept away in the current of memory again. Of implacable boots pressing him down, of once friendly voices spitting venom in his ears. Slander and filth and lies, or… _No._ Truths, harsh and acrid on his tongue. No, no…

“No, no, _no_ …” He hadn’t realized the word had hit the air until he dragged himself from the verge and managed to partially shake himself from the visions. He could see the shower again, the blood sliding down the wall but, indistinctly glinting off the tiles, he still beheld the face of his Father, twisted in hatred, the point of Michael’s spear, glistening red as he was thrown to the ground, thrown further. Down and down still.

Ash replaced the bitter earth and he coughed, head rolling against the tiling. Hellfire and brimstone and…

No.

He shook his head and buried his fingers in feathers, grinding the cartilage of the dislocated joint together. A shout left his lips, but the bittersweet present reasserted itself and he savored its sting. He exhaled a shuddering breath. He could do this. He _had_ to do this. The alternative was… unimaginable.

He shut his eyes; there was nothing to see, and it would, perhaps, make the next part easier. He took up the wing again, pushing it against the floor and slipping his foot onto it. He put his weight on the contemptible limb, grimacing, and made himself stand upright. The bones shifted uncomfortably around the dislocation. His nostrils flared as he, again, placed his free hand against the wall. He brought the knife up with the other, reaching back over his shoulder, laying the blade flat against his skin.

The steel cut into flesh with a satisfying _snick_ , but then he hit bone and the knife tumbled to the floor. His fingers dug reflexively into the wall, pulling away chunks of ceramic and sheetrock. He growled and retrieved the knife with a jerky, uncoordinated motion. He nodded to himself, recalculating the angle, before he slipped his hand back over his shoulder and, before he could think about it, plunged the knife between the primary and secondary scapulae.

He froze, jaw spasming, supporting arm going limp as his sight blurred and his hearing fuzzed out into impossible frequencies that seared his mind. His wing jerked desperately, but was pulled taut and couldn’t flee the assault. When the wave subsided ever so slightly, he found his hand was still clasped around the knife and he made himself wedge it in further, nerves blazing and refusing to overload. Numbness would have been preferable, but the pain only oscillated from freezing to scorching as the unpleasantly neutral odor of raw muscle hit the air and made him gag. He was surprised his hell flesh hadn’t reasserted itself, but he didn’t have the attention to consider the metaphysical implications.

He was weeping now, perhaps, or maybe it was just the sweat that gathered at his hairline to paint salt over his eyes. He pressed deeper and screamed. The blood let down in sheets across his back and down his legs, pooling at his feet before being washed away by the spray. But it was warm, and almost comforting, so he tried to focus on it even as he had to twist the knife to cleanly slice to the edge.

This had hurt so much less when Mazikeen had done it. Or maybe he was just different now. Nerves rawer, not nearly so sunk into sedation and affected indifference, this moment, this _act_ thrummed with a strange mortality. The forcible separation of his soul from his grace. But the knife seemed to cut even deeper this time, and every time the blade touched bone, the impact shot up his spine to rattle in his teeth.

He reached the limit his arm could stretch with a near feral howl, but the job was only half done, sinew parting grotesquely, muscle torn and throbbing. He would have to switch hands, but his other arm was hanging, nearly insensate, and wouldn’t move. But he was will and desire and he focused every mote of rage and power and incandescence he had to force the fingers to grip and the arm to twist and slide up his back. He had little control over angle and pressure in this position, and his careful cuts turned rapidly to hacks and slashes, feathers drifting down to brush his leg where it was braced against the wing.

The twitch of dying muscle echoed beneath his feet and nausea rose as the last bit of tissue was severed. The dead flesh hit the ground with a dull thud. He leaned over, head between his knees, and vomited bile and stale alcohol as he shook.

He fell to his knees, his remaining wing slumped against the floor as blood wept down his back. He bowed his head against the wall again, but there was no stability to be found there, only a worsening dizziness and the rapid beat of his heart pulsing through him, making him jerk softly with all of his remaining energy. His free hand came up to press against the tiles, the other left by his side, fingers still clenched around the dripping blade.

A supplicant to his own fears, he prayed for a moment of mercy but, as always, was denied. The pain refused to lessen or to settle and delivered unto him previously unknown and novel punishments for his pride and his presumption. His breaths were coming now as moans, rising in pitch, unable to be silenced, and darkness ate at the edges of his consciousness, held back only by the dread light of the gaping wound.

A fluttering slipped through his wing, echoed in the lacerated muscle of what remained of the severed limb, and he convulsed from the hideous feeling. But the job was only half done. He had to finish this. He had to finish this _now_ , before he lost his nerve. He rose to his feet, though he had no notion, this time, of where he’d found the strength, except that the unbalanced weight on his back was even more abhorrent than it had been before. Being so half-formed was a torment all on its own, and it drove him to once again withdraw a wing as far back as he could manage as he took hold of it and bent it forward against the motion, a broken cry escaping his throat and shaking the walls with its intensity.

The wing sank to the tiles and he staggered, pulled to the side by the unendurable heft. He scraped at the wall with the knife and jammed it deep, trying to hold himself up as his feet scrambled against the wet floor. A wrenching panic rose and something in his stomach plummeted. He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t…

The knife caught on a wall stud and he wedged it in further, held up only by the arm whose scapula lay ravaged. The flesh was ripping further, he knew, and he wondered if these less divine limbs would survive the process. But it was worth it. _Anything_ was worth no longer being chained to his Father’s will. To not be made to bathe in the light, so unlike his own, that only could burn out his eyes, or his soul.

He managed to get his feet under himself and drag his unyielding body against the wall for support. He would have to do the second wing leaning. He drew out the knife and ran it under the water for a moment to clear away the debris. He pressed the edge of the second wing under his foot and pulled himself upright as much as he could to keep the flesh taut. He realized, as he braced his upper arm on the tiles, extending his hand back to meet downy feathers, that he couldn’t reach the wing at all from this hunched position.

He pushed away from the wall and swayed, pain shooting white streaks and black voids across the red haze that pulsed over his vision. He locked his knees and tensed every muscle he could, holding himself as still as possible, though he continued to shake, tremors wracking his shoulders and spreading in waves down his back. He panted, forced his breaths to slow, and nodded.

He shoved the wing down harshly, clenching his jaw tightly enough to feel the roots of his teeth compress. Quick, brutal, efficient. He stomped down on the body of it, feathers discordantly soft between his toes. He took up the knife, starting with the bottom edge this time, to attempt to avoid the worst of the unnecessary damage the other method had caused. He reached behind his back and up, clipping off the tips of feathers.

Clipping. Clipping his wings. No longer able to fly. But he didn’t want to fly. He didn’t.

He _didn’t_.

There was no freedom to flight, no freedom to the warmth of the sun on his feathers as they shone as bright as the stars he’d set in the sky. Absolutely no liberation in the salt breeze in his hair as he dove and caught himself at the last possible moment before he tumbled into the sea.

And there would be nothing, now, to stop him from plummeting into its depths.

His cruel fantasy was ripped away as a worse agony slammed into him and he found himself face down in a pool of blood and shower water. He tried to reach back to check the wing. but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried to pull himself up to stand. But no. Attempted, simply, to lift his head away from the stream of his own body’s copper tang, but… nothing. He could only breathe and, as his lungs filled and his ribs moved, he slowly became aware of what had happened.

His battered wing must have, in the depths of the hallucination, attempted to flap, to billow outward, to pull him back from falling, as the hand holding the knife had clenched and driven instinctually upward into flesh and bone and the secondary scapula was shattered, jagged shards carving through his skin.

Something between a keening wail and the howl of an injured animal cleaved through the air and it took him a moment to realize that _he_ was the wounded, broken creature making it, his façade of humanity well and truly stripped in favor of whatever ravaged beast Hell had formed from the ashes of the angel he had once been.

Even the knife, still buried in his back, was nothing but his celestial light made infernal shadow, feathers forged by hellfire to a deadly sheen. But plucked feathers were hardly feathers at all. And severed wings were less than nothing. _He_ was less than nothing. So weak he couldn’t lift his own limbs. He had been the Will that set the universe alight and now…

No. He would not submit. Would not yield.

He threw his arm over his shoulder, screaming again, taking the solid humerus between his fingers and yanking with all the strength he had left. He could only hear it for a moment, that distinctive sound of rending muscle and sinew—something he had caused more times than he could count—but then the excruciation swept over him in lightning and in fire and in a great wave that dragged him under and suffocated him, yet left him hyperaware of every molecule of his body.

And it wasn’t done.

Bare inches were left of connective tissue as he grasped the edge of the wing in a hold more gentle caress than iron grip. His fingers skated against feathers as _sorry_ came to his lips even as he bucked and coughed and trembled. But he couldn’t let himself go into shock. Not yet. Not before…

He inhaled a rattling, aching breath and let it bring all the renewal he could manage and, as he exhaled in a pained rush, he dragged his hand inexorably forward, not enough power left in his limbs to move any faster. Bone fragments shifted and tore yet more muscle, the motion so slow that each fiber individually stretched and tensed and ripped as blood poured down his side.

The knife finally slipped free and clattered to the floor, though he could only hear it as if through water, every sense dulled and sharpened both in a cacophony of silence and sensation. The glory of the Heavens was so distant, now, more distant even than it had been in Hell, the connection increasingly tenuous as the last of the flesh was rended.

And, in that moment of final laceration, he was left in an agonizing stillness, a peace born by the quiet suffering of the aberrant. A grief that pierced his soul with the blade of his disobedience, lined with the venom of his deviance. Mourning the setting of the sun, yet dreading the dawn all the more. For the light brought with it deceit, the brilliance a mirage, a reflection of nothingness.

When he came back to himself, his face was pressed into spilt blood and bile, and the taste of gall was in his mouth. But he was not dead, though he lay as one unformed and unmade. No, he was reborn. He was whole in his brokenness and filled with all the glory of his awful emptiness. The sweetness of victory overrode the bitterness of agony for a fleeting second, before the true impact of his actions drew him into a fractured, rent oblivion. And there was darkness.

And there was light.

He jerked awake and hissed at the ache, not merely in his flesh, but resounding in his mind and his soul. An act so anathemic it tore at something in reality once completed. He had thought he’d only have to do such a thing once, and the second time had been more torturous in every way. And yet, he still wasn’t done, for the wounds continued to seep with blood and, though he could not, most likely, exsanguinate, he could not allow such debility to last.

He staggered to a standing position and washed himself off, marginally, before turning the faucet off. He stooped to pick up the knife from the ground and groaned. The pain had lessened, but every new motion renewed its intensity. He stumbled, dripping blood and water, to the main room and settled gratefully in front of the fireplace.

He lit a fire and stoked the flames carefully to the proper temperature, losing himself in the ritual. When the flames he’d been caressing were orange, edging on yellow, he nodded. It would have to be enough. The blood was already pooling where he sat.

He plunged the knife into the heart of the blaze and withdrew it only when it shone, hissing as he reached back, yet again, to press the flat of the blade onto ravaged flesh. This motion was, at least, familiar, for he had done this for himself the first time. Had built a bonfire upon the sand and pressed the knife into its coals over and over to perform his cautery, relishing the aching, delicious irony of his baptism by fire. Of an act of disobedience rivaled only by rebellion, even more seditious, perhaps, for he had only rebuilt his identity before. Now he rebuilt the very substance of himself—body, mind, and soul—liberated from His interference and His refulgence.

The adjacent skin remained unburnt, as only the wound was weakened enough to be affected by heat, even heat carried by a demon blade. It did not, perhaps, hurt to the extent that the amputation had, but he was of fire and it was strange to be wounded by his selfsame essence. A thought flickered in his mind that this may have been more of a punishment for _himself_ than for his Father, but he buried it in righteous indignation as he slipped the blade back into the hearth and withdrew it to start on the second scar.

The smell, however, was harder to ignore—something of spit-turned pork and slowly roasting chicken, intriguing and horrifying both. Sickness overtook him until he pressed his face into the fire and inhaled ash and embers, preferring, in this moment, a stench reminiscent of Hell to all this visceral, arresting humanity. The flames licked at his head and he found there a moment of serenity as he seared the bottom edge of the second wound.

And it was done, the wax melted as he succumbed to the sea.

There were layers to the pain now and, as he stood again, turning to observe the trail of blood, they fragmented into daggers sharper than hell-forged steel, stabbing at him with wild abandon, before calming to a dull ache, only then to reform as whips and flay his back until the agony was as it had been when the knife was bloodied and the wounds were still raw.

He breathed roughly and pulled himself up from where he had fallen to his knees, seizing the sensations and shoving them forcibly into a darkened corner of his mind. That particular cell was full to bursting already with adamantine chains and his siblings’ swords and the lake of fire, but its lock was reinforced with eons of twisted grins and humorous deflection, that particular mask refined by millennia in hellfire, so well-fitting he hardly felt it when it was donned. Indeed, he felt almost naked without it.

He cleaned the floor before standing in front of the bathroom door for so long he began to feel foolish. He gritted his teeth, jaw still aching, and pushed on the glass. The wings were stark against the shower tiles and he averted his gaze from their vibrant luster, making his mortal accoutrements seem weak and dim and all too ephemeral.

He shut his eyes, not needing sight to navigate the room, not willing to look upon such ruination. Though he was not ashamed. Was, in point of fact, vaingloriously proud that he had reclaimed his identity so fully. He reveled in each drop of blood spilled and every torn and twisted feather that had fallen to the ground. This had been his decision and his decision alone; none had forced his hand and, if necessary, he would willingly make that decision again. So, not shamed, but reticent to view his works. These monstrosities did not deserve to thrive in splendor, but to be buried in a perdition deeper even than the one he’d been cast into.

He gathered up the appendages and shook the worst of the water off of them. He dragged them from the shower, through the doorway, and out into the closet. He was making to pull the things out into the main room—the service elevator would provide easy egress to the alleyway and the dumpsters—when his fingers slipped from the bridge to the softer down, and he froze, the wings tumbling from his suddenly numb hands. A single feather, limned in blood, drifted down to brush against his bare foot. His eyes shot open and he watched as it settled on the ground, its soft light dimming to nothing.

What had he done?

No. _No_. He ground his palms into his eyes. He did what he had to do. He did what he _needed_ to do. These feelings were manipulation from his Father. They were _not_ real. He _knew_ who he was, and he would not let anyone else define him, least of all _Him_. And now, at least, he was free from his confinements.

He was free.

He turned away from the devastation and dressed as quickly as he could, flattening his curls down just enough to be decent, and hastily applying eyeliner. With every layer he felt a little more solid, a little more contained. He drew composure around himself like a mantle and, when he felt he might be touched without shattering, called the elevator up. He adjusted his cufflinks and twisted his ring around his finger. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

He drove to the precinct in a haze punctuated by sharp pangs. Every gear shift, every acceleration that ordinarily brought him such joy, only pressed his scars against the seatback more firmly until he found himself under the speed limit, tightened fingers leaving marks on the steering wheel, hair unruffled by the salt breeze. Grounded. He entered the station with all the aplomb he could muster, but was met with nothing but silence, and Daniel, whose amicable clap on the back nearly laid him flat. But he bit back his anguish and forced himself, yet again, upright. He would persevere, for himself, for Chloe. She had such faith in him, and he _had_ to repay it in turn.

But she didn’t believe him.

And there, on the altar of hope cracked and broken by despair, his faith incinerated to ash. But there was warmth in that fire, and he let it burn within him. And yet, as the pain slowly diminished to a level he might call comforting, the wings reestablished themselves, ripping from flesh made nonconsensually whole, his very identity torn from him. And there, finally, he saw the trick. He understood now.

This was to be his own personal hell-loop.

As the parade of purported compatriots that still could never truly understand fell away, one by one, he returned to his bathroom, alone. He removed his suit jacket, his shirt. His shoes, socks, trousers left in a pile outside the shower as he stepped in and turned on the spray. He sighed, took up the knife again, and prepared for the next, and the next.

And the next.


End file.
